


Five Days, Six Nights (And a Bed in Vegas)

by significantowl



Category: British Actor RPF, Irish Actor RPF, Scottish Actor RPF, X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: 5 Times, 5+1 Things, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Road Trips, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-26 13:18:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2653370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>This trip across America - it makes Erik and Charles into the unit they are,</i> Michael had said, flipping a biro around in his fingers. <i>Maybe we should follow their lead. See what one can do for us.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dulles, Virginia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [readercat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/readercat/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [readercat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/readercat/pseuds/readercat) in the [mcfassy_autumn_extravaganza_2014](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/mcfassy_autumn_extravaganza_2014) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> James/Michael and/or James/Michael/Diego Luna (Y Tu Mama Tambien): Flashing back, James and Michael read the script for XMFC and come up with the brilliant idea (not at all fueled by lust at first sight *wink*) that in order to properly prepare for the roadtrip scenes, they simply MUST do one of their own. This part isn't necessary, but I'd totally love it-- perhaps along the way, they pick up a passenger (Diego Luna) who knows a thing or two about roadtrips...and sexy accent overload commences. ; )
> 
> ... this is without the threesome, I'm afraid, but I really hope you enjoy! :-) More to come soon!

_1\. Dulles, Virginia_

The starting point is easy: Washington-Dulles International, a stone’s throw from CIA Headquarters in Langley. The route takes a little more consideration, but with the aid of Google Maps, a 1960’s atlas of the United States procured from a charity shop, and a bottle of good whisky, James and Michael have it sorted soon enough.

If it had taken a bit longer, James wouldn’t have minded. Side-by-side on a small hotel sofa with the bottle tucked between them, London’s late-night buses grumbling down the road outside. Possibilities opening like secret doors. It’s a good night.

For Erik and Charles, it would’ve been a Lincoln Town Car, or perhaps a Chevrolet Impala, something with bench seats, swooping rear fins, no gas mileage, and chrome everywhere the eye could see. They would’ve set off down America’s younger, narrower interstates to find out how not-alone they truly were.

James and Michael's car is a Ford Focus - cheap, easy to obtain, inauthentic. James’ flight in from Heathrow lands him in the States two hours before Michael’s plane is due to touch down, and after he gets the hire car paperwork out of the way, he spends the time drifting uselessly about the baggage claim, too keyed up to read any of the dozens of books he’s got stored on his phone.

They’ve got a week before they’re due back on set. A week before they’re Erik and Charles again, and Erik and Charles have to be closer than ever. Not that he and Michael have had any trouble warming up to one another; if anything, for James the trouble’s been just the opposite.

His body feels like it’s on fire when he’s next to Michael, or when Michael simply looks at him from across a room. In character, out of character, it doesn’t matter. Every cell - every atom - is bright, electric, alive.

_This trip across America - it makes Erik and Charles into the unit they are,_ Michael had said, flipping a biro around in his fingers. They’d been tucked into a quiet corner of the set, script-reading; James had shivered at the sudden sound of Michael’s voice. _Maybe we should follow their lead. See what one can do for us._

The pen had kept spinning, moving restlessly between those elegant fingers. Was it a tic, was that a thing he could say he knew about Michael now, that he couldn’t keep his fingers still when he was nervous? James had certainly felt nervous himself, like there wasn’t enough air to breathe, and for once he’d known that it wasn’t his occasionally-dickey lungs to blame. 

Same thing now, standing in this airport, seeing Michael walk towards him.

He’s so _long_ , torso and hands and those legs that go on forever. He’s got a carryall over one shoulder, a small suitcase wheeling along behind him, and a phone in one hand. He’s frowning down at the screen - maybe he’s texting James. He’s got on a pair of worn jeans that look like they’d be incredibly soft, and a grey tee that fits him like a glove, highlighting his biceps, his pecs.

James’ phone buzzes in his pocket. He doesn’t reach for it yet. He’s got one short moment left to stare, one moment while Michael lowers his own phone, raises his head, looks around -

Pull in air. Let it out. Michael was already hard enough to look at, too beautiful and too real after weeks spent apart. But now he’s smiling, wide and bright and sparking like adventure, and James is done for.


	2. Interstate 81, Virginia

_2\. Interstate 81, Virginia_

The hills roll on and on, dark green and lush in the golden early summer sun. Michael had insisted on driving the first leg on the grounds that James’ day had started much earlier than his had. James won’t admit to feeling it, but Michael knows what tired looks like on him, the fine lines it etches under his eyes, the weight it adds to his face.

The motorway takes them south down the knobby spine of Virginia, and Michael finds himself wishing for a gearbox and a clutch rather than this Ford’s automatic transmission. He’d like to downshift at the base of these hills then roar up them, engine singing his tune, the power all in his hands. He’d like to take control.

He can do that with a car. With a bike. Machines are easy.

It’s hard to believe this is actually happening. Looking out at the mountains helps; the ancient, densely-treed hills crest like waves in every direction under a cerulean sky, and there’s no denying they’re somewhere new. Together.

Michael had just flung the words out there, that day on set, let the wish in his heart come out without any prior thought or expectations. He couldn’t look up from his page while he said it. He’d missed whatever complicated thing James’ face had done in response.

It must have been complicated. Because there was such a long, quiet beat of time before James said: _I like how you think, man._

And Michael had swallowed, and swallowed again, making certain his voice was a steady and casual as James’ before he said, _Cool._

And now they’re finally here, striking out across America, just the two of them. This week is theirs. Possibilities stretch long before them, long as the road itself, but responsibility does too; whatever happens, whatever doesn’t happen, it’s all up to he and James. 

The sun is sinking, and shadows are lengthening in the valleys. James is slumped against the window, dozing, breathing open-mouthed and noisy. Michael had been right: he’d needed the rest. Their carefully-laid plans call for reaching the state line before stopping for the night, and they’ve about ninety more miles to go.

The hotel’s in Bristol. But Bristol straddles the border, and Michael can’t remember whether James had booked them for the Holiday Inn Express in Tennessee or Virginia, although the more billboards he sees for fireworks superstores in Tennessee, the more he suspects he can guess which state James was drawn to. But he definitely doesn’t know which exit to take. He’ll have to wake James up for that.

James smells good. 

All those weeks away, and now James is here, tucked snug into the bucket passenger seat of this little Ford, filling Michael's thoughts and his lungs, even if the road has claimed his eyes. He smells like the world outside, woodsy and fresh, like a breeze that whispers through pine and oak and steals a bright breath of lemon gold from the sun.

If this were 1962, if they were Erik and Charles, there'd be one long front seat, no console between them. Charles' head could've drifted onto Erik's shoulder; his strong body could've been pressed solid and close along Erik's side. Erik could've felt the rise and fall of his breath, could’ve sensed the iron moving in his veins. 

Proof of Charles, in blood and breath and bone. It would have meant something to Erik, whether he was able to admit it to himself or not. It would have mattered.

Michael drives, and breathes James in.


	3. Memphis, Tennessee

_3\. Memphis, Tennessee_

Memphis pours in through James' ears and gets into his blood, his heart. It reminds him of Glasgow, in a way: an industrial city, one that works and works hard. Making things, moving things. Memphis may be a legend, but it’s _real_. Life happens here.

The bars and clubs along Beale Street - and he and Michael check out a fair few - all throb with the visceral sound of the blues, the music pulsing out into the air like an open wound. The blues is loving until you break, or wanting so badly that you bleed. It’s a cut too jagged to ever heal.

For Charles it will happen on a beach in Cuba. James thinks his own heart is safer, but not because he’s doing a better job of guarding it; in fact, he knows he isn’t, because just sitting beside Michael now, elbow to elbow, and hearing that little hum of satisfaction when he takes his first sip of Kentucky bourbon is enough to make him feel as if his chest is splayed open, his heart ripe for the taking. 

He believes - he hopes - it’s in good hands.

As the last wails of a guitar fade away, Michael says, "Think that song was playing here in 1962?"

James looks around the old place, scarred wooden floors and dingy walls crowded with black and white photos of blues musicians. “This bar was here for fuckin’ sure. The song, maybe. B.B. King, was it?”

Michael shrugs, lifting his glass. “Ah, I forgot,” James says. “I should only come to you with questions about famous accordion players.”

“Eighties bands and accordion players, thank you.”

James snorts into his drink. “Yeah? Right now I’m imagining you as a wee boy -” he gestures to ‘indicate small Michael’s height - “teachin’ yourself _Livin’ on a Prayer_ on the accordion.”

“And driving me mam mad in the process, yeah,” Michael says. “Got me and my instrument banished to the shed.”

“Never known a boy who minded being banished, if banishment meant a little private time alone with his instrument.”

It’s Michael’s turn to snort, his face crinkling with delight. “I can neither confirm nor deny -”

“The tales your shed could tell, though,” James says, and is rewarded with some of his favourite things: the flush of Michael’s cheeks when he laughs, and the way he gets truly helpless with it, collapsing forward with his elbows on the table like there’s just no holding himself up any more.

The motor lodge they end up in that night is, like the bar, of the correct vintage; it’s laid out in a half-circle, office in the centre, a parking space directly in front of every room. Michael is particularly enchanted, either because he’s really getting into the whole sixties vibe, or because growing up in his parents’ B&B gave him a heightened interest in hotel rooms that they’re just now scratching the surface of. 

“Look at this tub. Look at this tile,” Michael says, gesturing, before turning the taps with more enthusiasm than fifty-year-old taps could possibly deserve. James revises his assessment. Maybe Michael’s just had enough to drink to find the world at large particularly enchanting. Maybe James would be cooing over lavatory fittings if he hadn’t been the night’s designated driver.

“We should ring Matthew. Tell him we’ve found him a set.” Vintage charms aside, James is just glad that everything looks thoroughly clean, and the prevailing smell is lemony-fresh detergent. He backs out of the postage-stamp sized loo and goes to unzip his bag, lying on the nearest of the two beds. 

It’s been an assumption between them from the beginning that Charles and Erik would’ve shared rooms as they crossed the country. James knows exactly how much of that assumption is rooted in wishful thinking on his part. He can only guess when it comes to Michael.

How does anyone really know about anyone else? Isn’t that where every blues song begins and ends? 

They’re learning new rhythms now, of days and nights together. Michael likes to shower before he sleeps, without fail. James can take it or leave it; depends on how grotty he feels, depends on how tired he is. Tonight he can leave it, so he pulls out his sleep clothes while listening to the rattle of the shower curtain through the wall, and the sound of the spray.

Michael must be naked by now, standing under the flow of water, letting it patter over his neck and shoulders, and run down his body. These are dangerous thoughts, far too tempting when James is slipping between the sheets, and he curls his hands around his pillow, keeping them away from his body as he works to dislodge those thoughts from his mind.

Trying to toss off into a tissue before Michael gets out of the shower is exactly the sort of beat-the-clock (beat-the- _cock_ , his brain helpfully supplies) game that’s destined to leave him frustrated, hard as fuck, and visibly trying not to tent the covers when Michael reappears. So he’s not going to play it. No. His hands are safer where they are.

Michael’s voice is rising above the sound of the water now, rolling like dark whisky, rough and smooth all at once. It’s The Doobie Brothers he’s singing, about a decade too late for Charles and Erik, but they’d heard it somewhere today, and it must have stuck. _Old black water, keep on rollin’, Mississippi moon won’t you keep on shinin’ on me…._

He’s still singing softly when the lavatory door creaks open. James has rolled over onto his side with his eyes closed, so he doesn’t know if Michael’s wearing a towel, boxers, boxers and a tee…. He counts himself lucky that he doesn’t know. He hears the moment when Michael spots him, the sudden hush that falls. How quietly Michael moves after that, softly crossing the room and turning back the blanket on the other bed.

It’s not the sound of Michael crawling into bed with a sleeping lover. But it’s close enough for James’ imagination, and as he drifts off to sleep, his dreams take care of the rest.


	4. Albuquerque, New Mexico

_4\. Albuquerque, New Mexico_

New Mexico is all heat, dazzling Michael's eyes when he looks out at the bright, wide span of the sky. It pours in through the windscreen, pierces his sunnies, and roasts their little hire car as it crawls along the desert's vast surface. In Ireland you don't get out of your car at a petrol stop, face yourself in the mirror of the jacks, and find that your skin's gone crispy pink just from driving along the motorway. In some parts of America, you do.

There’s heat on his tongue, too, whenever they stop for a bite. Michael falls in love with carnitas, nearly forgetting his own name the first time the deeply spiced pulled pork melts in his mouth. And he develops an obsession with charred, smoky chilies in all their complexity, the bright heat of the sun packed into every bite, but tempered, darkened, and sweetened by more earthly fires.

James is crazy. He's the one who bites into a raw red chili, lifting it from where it sits jauntily in a bed of lettuce on his plate of flautas. Michael pats him on the back; his blue t-shirt's soaked up the sun, and Michael leaves his hand there while he flags down a waitress and gets James a pitcher of ice water, and a fresh sheaf of napkins for wiping his mouth and streaming nose and eyes.

James' voice is husky for the better part of an hour afterward. Michael wants to tease him for his sheer imbecility, but finds he can't until that scratch is gone from his throat. 

When the desert sun sets, the air is surprisingly cool. Michael pulls out the leather jacket he hasn't used since the plane; it's perfect against the night breezes sweeping into the city from the mountains. Two streets from the hotel there's a tequila bar that boasts sixty different tequilas. Definitely too much of a challenge to take on in one evening, but as James points out, where would they be without goals?

They start with the sampler, six shot glasses arranged in a ring around a heap of quartered limes and a finger bowl of salt. Two Herradura Reposados, a classic, aged in wood barrels; two Tierra Blancos, brand-new but apparently award-winning; and two that aren’t tequila at all, but a Mezcal, complete with pieces of worm at the bottom. "I've taken all the chances I'm taking for the day," James says, eyeing the latter. "That's all yours."

“I don't think you actually drink the worm,” Michael says, resolving at once not to google and find out, just in case you actually did. “Like your pepper. It's just there to trick the tourists.”

“Erik would,” James says, shot glass in hand. “Homo superior would never be bested by a mere _worm_.”

“Nice try,” Michael says, “but no.” He downs the shot, keeping his mouth clamped against the glass so that the worm bumps up harmlessly against his teeth.

Margaritas make for a natural-follow up to the shots. Michael orders what’s called “The Original,” and it’s good in a way he's never truly had a margarita before: premium tequila with a rich, smooth flavour, fresh limes, sparkling water, just the right amount of salt. James goes for something fruitier and more complicated - the menu description’s two lines long - and based on his reaction to the first sip, nothing short of transcendental. 

“Peaches, guava and lime,” he says, when he quits with the delighted noises long enough to speak. His eyes flutter shut. “Fuckin' revelation, man.”

“Leave off,” Michael says. “You’re going to make me wish I’d gone for that instead.” 

“You can have a taste, if you like.” James doesn’t hold out the glass, though. He tips it to his lips, moistening them, making them even more sweetly pink than they already were.

Michael places his glass on the table carefully. Tries to keep his voice light, like James’ choice of answer won’t matter at all. “Is that a Charles Xavier move, then?"

There's a similar pause before James answers, a considered beat. “It's no Patrick Stewart move, now is it? These days Charles Xavier's takin' his moves from me.”

“Well, in that case….” Michael leans forward slowly, his hands suddenly shaky. James waits with one eyebrow cocked, expectant, a look that Michael knows is something of an act, because he’s seen James wear it in artsy photo spreads. Or no, it’s armour, because at the edges this expression slips into something softer and achingly vulnerable.

James makes a small sound when their lips touch, softer and infinitely more delighted than anything his margarita had inspired. The trails of peach juice on James' lips are sweet, but it's his lips themselves that are the true treat, and Michael lifts a trembling hand to James' cheek and drinks him in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tumble [here](http://significantowl.tumblr.com) \- come say hi if you like!


	5. The Painted Desert, Arizona

_5\. The Painted Desert, Arizona_

Sand, scrub, hills, and a white-hot sky. James wishes this stretch of motorway weren’t quite so lonely; a little more traffic would be a welcome diversion, give him something to think about besides the events of the last twelve hours, currently playing on a chronically painful loop in his head.

There’d been that kiss at the bar. Another out on the street on the way back to the hotel, after James’ drink-clumsy feet had sent him stumbling into Michael’s side. But the sharp chill of the night air, the bright lights of the hotel lobby, and the gleaming white coverlets on their room's double beds had, in turn, forced their way through James’ blurred senses, shouting inside his head: _Wait, wait, he’s drunk, you’re drunk, wait._

So James took the easy way out, because it was the only one he trusted himself to see all the way through. Michael went to the loo. James went to sleep - fake sleep - before he made it back out.

Cowardly, but effective.

In the morning he was the first one out of bed. Either he woke Michael as he crept about the room, or Michael had been lying awake already, because when James emerged from the shower Michael was fully dressed, and there was a builder’s tea waiting for him that Michael had concocted at the complimentary breakfast in the lobby. It had been hot and sweet, a mockery of comfort next to Michael’s stilted conversation and body language. Both of which were James’ fault.

Three and a half hours later, sugar still hangs in the back of James’ throat, and he finds himself ready to break.

“So there was tequila. And me egging you on.” His voice is a thousand shades of awkward and carries too loudly over the radio; James winces, modulates. “I’m thinkin’ an apology’s about ten hours overdue.”

The car isn’t the worst place for this kind of conversation, at least. No-one has to look at anyone else. It can’t get any more civilised than that.

“A gentleman always accepts.” Michael's tone is controlled and unreadable. He's an Academy Award-nominated actor, of course it is if that’s how he wishes it to be. Does he want to forget it ever happened? Or is that - could James actually be so lucky - is that the opposite of what Michael wants?

_How does anyone really know about anyone else?_

James would give a lot for Charles’ powers just about now. He has no fucking doubt Charles Xavier would snoop. Whether he’d handle the situation well after that is an entirely different story….

Suddenly there’s a hand on his leg, just above the knee. Long, warm fingers pressed against his jeans, a thumb rubbing gently back and forth. James forgets to breathe.

“There. There’s _my_ move,” Michael says quietly. “Tell me, do I need to make any apologies to you?”

No. Fuck no. James shakes his head, but doesn’t let himself glance at Michael, not even for a moment. He’s driving a car here, he’s got hills and traffic to contend with - thank God there isn’t much after all, he forgot the accelerator completely there for a minute, any more cars on the road and the Focus might’ve lost its rear bumper. If Michael looks anywhere near as honest as he sounds, once he catches a glimpse James won’t be able to look away.

“Ah, well, I’m going to anyway, so. For whatever I did to make you think I needed one from you.”

Another head shake. James’ throat is tight. “You didn’t - it’s not you,” he gets out. “Half the time I’m a cocky shit and the rest of the time….” James swallows, forces himself to finish. “I’m an anxious one. You got lucky, you got to experience both in less than twenty-four hours.” 

The cockiness is usually a fair cover for the anxiety, right up to the point where it runs out and he’s left to think about just how often people must go along with his crap only because it’s the easy thing to do. Or the nice thing.

But Michael’s hand is still on his thigh, heavy and warm, and when his fingers squeeze, James knows it’s not a mockery of anything. It’s comfort, honest and true. And when Michael tells him _I definitely feel lucky_ , it’s nothing like being fed a line. That honesty’s still in his voice, simple and bare and all for James.

“The next off-ramp,” James says, a little strangled, “I’m going to take it,” and does. 

It’s the exit for the Petrified Forest National Park, and they wind along the narrow park road for a few miles while the radio plays something by The Cure and James’ heartbeat nearly drowns out the backbeat. An overlook comes into view. It’s gloriously deserted, and James pulls the Focus in. 

He turns the ignition off. The radio’s still playing, but James ignores it. The next move’s on him. He loops shaking hands around Michael’s neck, and draws him in.

No blurry edges here, no alcohol, no bravado. James doesn’t want to forget their first kiss, not ever, that first brush of Michael’s lips is something he wants to keep ‘til the end of time - but _this_ one…. This is the shining clarity of the desert sun, the promise of morning, the joy of setting off on a journey together from the same place.

Michael is a handsy kisser. As he leans in, his left hand spreads higher on James’ thigh, fingers splaying wide. His right roams, finding James’ neck, his back, his waist, sparking a thousand fires along James’ nerve endings, all wild and untamed. It’s overload, pure and simple, because Michael’s mouth is setting off flares all on its own, his lips firm but sweet, working James over until he’s forgotten where he ends and Michael begins. Fire knows no boundaries.

Suddenly James is desperate to escape the car’s cramped front seat. To break out into the sunlight, press his back against the heated metal and glass of the door, pull Michael against his front, and burn.

The roar of an engine breaks the spell. 

James startles, drawing away, the shape of Michael's lips lingering like a phantom against his own. A van's pulling in next to them, thick with road dust, two adults in the front seat, two smaller heads in the back.

There are bright crinkles at the corners of Michael’s eyes. "Vegas, then?" Michael says, voice a little raspy. His cheeks are flushed, and his hand shifts on James’ leg, resettling. Showing no signs of letting go.

"Vegas," James agrees, turning the key in the ignition. As they pull back onto the parkway, he catches a glimpse of the family in the rearview mirror, swarming towards the railing to take in the view. Ahead is the open road, and Vegas, and all the miles in between: miles James will always remember as belonging to the steady heat of Michael's hand, true as the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Michael's move may just be a cousin to the Erik Lehnsherr Leg Pat. :D


	6. Las Vegas, Nevada

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here's the end! Thanks so much for sticking with me! <3

_6\. Las Vegas, Nevada_

Vegas is a city of thousand distractions, but James and Michael only have time for each other. 

One wall of their hotel room is floor-to-ceiling glass, and beyond it is a world of flashing neon light screaming for attention. Red-blue-yellow-green-white. _Come here, come here, look, come see._

James sits on the edge of the bed, dropping his suitcase at his feet. He only has eyes for Michael, long and lean in his battered jeans and black tee, haloed in the warm light of the bedside lamp. He’s a shadow trimmed with gold, brightness touching his hair, his lips, his hands. He’s real. This is real. James needs to remember to breathe.

So much time. So much hope and longing and anticipation. So many miles. And now -

“Have we missed a step?” Michael’s fingers play over the edge of his chin, faux-thoughtful, although a tiny catch in his throat suggests he’s just as affected as James is. “Should we’ve hit a strip club first? Erik and Charles did.”

“Fuck that.” Inside James’ head it starts out as a joke to match Michael’s, but the words come out lower, rougher. “The only strip show I want to see is yours.” 

The smile that spreads across Michael’s face says _Why not?_ , and James shivers, still not used to the idea that it could be that easy, that the things he wants are things Michael might be more than happy to give. “Maybe we can make that happen,” Michael says, hand drifting down. It comes to a rest over the button to his jeans, pale fingers curved against the dark denim, waiting.

James swallows. His heart’s beating triple-time. A week ago, when he’d been standing in that baggage claim drinking in the sight of Michael, had any part of him truly imagined this moment? Believed it might come? 

He wants to see Michael pop that button. _Needs_ to see it. But more than that James needs to kiss him, touch lips to lips, _connect_. He surges up to his feet, reaching for Michael’s hips; kisses him firmly, nudging his lips apart, capturing Michael’s gasp before it can escape his mouth. “There,” James whispers. “Maybe that’ll tide me over.”

A crooked smile lingers on Michael’s lips as they part, one James has never quite seen before: there’s delight in it, and a hint of amazement, like he still can’t fully believe that _he’s_ what James wants. 

He is. Good God, he is. James knows the same smile’s gracing own his lips, can feel it there. The softness of it, the wonder. 

When Michael says, “Why don’t you get more comfortable,” James is happy enough to comply. He scoots up to the head of the bed and leans back against the pillows, legs crossed at the ankles, hands loose at his sides. But, “You can get more comfortable than _that_ ,” Michael points out, flashing a grin, so James shifts a hand to his lap, nestling it over his cock.

Then James watches, throat going dry, while Michael finally pops that button free with a neat twist of his fingers. His hand slips inside his jeans, and James knows what he's doing. He's dragging his cock into position. Pointing it up.

James' gives a happy little pulse, and he offers it a comforting rub through his clothes. 

Two thousand miles ago, James stood in a airport and tried not to get caught staring at the way Michael filled out a t-shirt very like this one. Now Michael’s hiking his shirt up just for James, splaying one hand against his flat, firm stomach while the other inches his zipper down. Michael’s eyes are cast down as if the slow crawl of those metal teeth is taking every ounce of his focus and concentration. It's certainly taking all of James’. 

When Michael finally gets the zipper all the way down, _finally_ spreads open his jeans, James is transfixed by the boxers peeking through - thin, plain white cotton - and the solid bulge just beyond.

He needs to see more of that. He needs to touch it.

But now both Michael's hands are at work on his shirt, and James' eyes are helpless to follow. Sure, this isn't completely unfamiliar territory; he'd seen Michael without a shirt even before this trip and the string of shared hotel rooms that came with it. But this is the first time it's been with purpose, that he's watched with the intent to touch. He's following the journey up the ladder of Michael's ribs, and he shifts where he sits, wanting to touch each stair-step with his fingers, with his mouth.

Soon. Soon. Michael's easing his shirt up slowly, palms skimming his chest. But there's no theatricality about it, no air of performance. It's simpler and better than that. Just Michael, getting ready for James.

Who, without entirely realising it, has been rolling his palm over his cock.

Maybe seeing that spurs Michael on, because suddenly the shirt’s up and over his head and discarded on the bed. And there are Michael's sculpted shoulders, there’s his defined chest, and there, just beneath the skin, pounding out a rhythm better than any song, is his heart - 

Michael's hands drop to his waist, and once again James’ eyes follow. “What do you say, jeans and boxers off in one go, or one thing at a time? Up to you.”

James sucks in air. Those hands are poised and ready, fingers curved over the top of his jeans, pulling the denim ever so slightly downwards, showing off a tiny bit more skin. It's an easy choice. “All at once,” James says, clearing his throat. “If it's all the same to you.”

“You got it,” Michael says, his voice gravelly and uneven. Like maybe it isn't really all the same to him. Like he's glad James isn’t keen to drag this out much longer. “Do one thing for me first, though?” He nods towards the hand in James’ lap, and James’ pulse pounds all the way down to his cock. “Take it out.”

"I show you mine, you show me yours?" James can feel the heat rising in his face, but the eagerness and open need in Michael's voice burns most of the self-consciousness away. He'd wondered what it might sound like when Michael was moments away from crawling into bed with a lover, hadn't he? And now, fuck, now James knows. Michael sounds like _want_. A pure, untapped vein of it. Ready and waiting.

It's with shaky fingers that James gets his jeans undone. Gets his zipper down. One quick glimpse at Michael's hungry face, then James’ eyes are on himself, lids fluttering a bit as he takes himself in hand, pulling his cock out into the air, and drags his fist up in one tight stroke.

Someone groans. Maybe it's both of them. 

The words _thank you_ escape Michael on a sigh, and he begins pulling at his remaining clothes. Not too quickly, but not slowly either; James’ fingers squeeze around the base of his cock when Michael's clothes hit his thighs and his length - shit, what a length - springs free. It's so long and it looks so heavy, James’ fingers twitch with the urge to jack it and see what he can make it do. 

The jeans hit the floor, showing off Michael's thighs, which are lovely, lean, and muscular, but James only spares them the briefest glance. Then he's up on his knees, cock bobbing in the air, reaching for Michael. Wrapping his hands around his waist, dragging him close, touching, touching, touching.

*

James’ hands are hot and purposeful, and Michael is glad to follow their coaxing and join James on the bed. He brackets James’ hips with his knees, ranging over him as James settles back against the pillows once more. James’ perfect hard-on is jutting out from his jeans. He’s flushed and beautiful, his chest rising and falling, rising and falling.

Closer. Michael needs to get closer. He dips down lower, burying his face in James’ neck, just breathing him in, clean woodland spice mixed with the sweet salt of his skin. He’d smelled good in the front seat of a Focus, and now…. “Been dying to do this,” Michael whispers, nosing his way behind James’ ear. James laughs, a soft sound that begins as a giggle but turns breathless. 

“Mm, have you now?” James’ palms are dragging low on Michael's stomach, and it’s clear the goal he has in mind. While Michael mouths at James’ ear, tugging the lobe between his lips, James reaches his cock and takes it in one strong hand, then slowly, slowly pulls up. “Oh yeah,” James says, when Michael's cock throbs, “now _that's_ what I've been wantin’ to do.”

“Don't, don't let me stop you.” Michael’s mouth is working along James’ throat now, and his hands, hell, he’s putting them everywhere he can reach. Under James’ shirt, over his stomach, up his chest, touching, taking.

“No fear of that,” James says on the heels of another long stroke. But a moment later, Michael’s making a liar of them both, because he’s running out of skin and he needs James’ t-shirt _gone_. That means James has to lift his hand from Michael’s cock long enough to get his arms through the sleeves. But he’s generous enough to go on and shuck his jeans and boxers while he's at it, so when Michael presses his full weight down into James’ warm body a few seconds later all he feels is skin.

He licks James’ nipple slowly, with the flat of his tongue. James thumbs the head of Michael’s cock. 

He's not going to last.

But strangely enough, perhaps that’s for the best. It’s James, after all, and even though this is new for the two of them, he _knows_ James; James is going to be worried about Michael right up until the moment Michael’s body makes it crystal clear he doesn’t need to be any more. So Michael doesn't try to hold back. He lets his hips buck up into James’ grip, and he devours the pleased curve of James’ lips when a twist of James’ wrist makes his cock jerk wildly. 

“Let’s have that again,” James murmurs, a rumble against Michael’s cheek, and he makes it happen, speeding up his hand just enough, tightening his fingers just so. Michael's sucking on James' bottom lip - his neck - his shoulder - he’s gasping wetly against James’ chest - 

When he comes to, when his hips stop stuttering and his cock stops pulsing and he can think again, Michael begins to move. He noses his way down James’ body. He knows where he wants to be, and what he wants to do, and the pleased hum that James makes suggests he's completely on board with the idea.

James’ cock is warm and thick when he slips it into his mouth, and the scent of him is everywhere. James is in his lungs, his throat, his heart; Michael's drowning in James, and he never wants to surface again.

Their journey won’t end when they leave this city, this room, or this bed. They’ve crossed a continent together; they’ve crossed a divide. The road ahead will be one of their own making, and there’s such a long, long way they can go.


End file.
